Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 628: First Popularity [4]

"Wait, is that Michael Norman?!"

"Bro, it’s him! Phantom Spear, no way!"

"He looks younger though... Maybe an alt account?"

"Could be a player who messed around with their character design."

"Nah, even if that’s possible, with the minimal freedom given to customize your character, you’d still look quite as you look irl."

HexaNova laughed when she saw the flood of messages but couldn’t deny what her chat saw.

On screen, Jester turned slightly, his expression detached yet quietly observant, the sunlight catching his raven-black hair in a way that made the scene feel cinematic.

"Alright," she said with a grin, "whoever this guy is, he’s got the internet going wild right now."

There were certain kinds of people who, once they became famous, rarely lost their fame. It could fade a little over time, but it was hard to disappear completely unless time itself erased it.

These people could be called pioneers.

Thanks to the Federation, the recent trend in Aurora was the gradual transformation of modern society into a fully supernatural one. To achieve this, a few individuals were deliberately placed in the public eye to drive the narrative forward.

The first major step had been the broadcast of the college exam’s second round, an event that became one of the most influential moments in society’s recent history. Among the participants, a few stood out more than the rest.

As one of the few who demonstrated a rare spatial ability—something uncommon even among supernaturals—Michael’s fame didn’t diminish. It only grew as more footage and edited clips of him spread across the net.

Among the youth of Aurora, there weren’t few who knew of him. Many admired him, and some outright idolized him.

Phantom Spear. A name Michael didn’t quite like, as it didn’t fit his profession, had nonetheless become popular across the net.

With such a reputation, it wasn’t hard for Michael to be recognized anywhere he appeared.

Unfortunately for the streamer, Jester wasn’t Michael. But at first glance, few could tell the difference. Only after the initial commotion settled did viewers begin to notice the subtle age difference.

Jester looked everything like Michael on the surface, except he appeared at least three years younger.

At this time, Jester was checking the gun in his hands. The design was sleek yet heavy, its metallic texture cold against his palm. He studied the weapon carefully, his fingers tracing the smooth grip and faint digital markings along its side. Though he had barely spent more than a week in Aurora, Jester had already adapted with remarkable ease.

Thanks to his high intelligence and his little "information sessions" with the neighborhood’s elderly—friendly grandmas and grandpas who were more than happy to share stories about everyday life—he had absorbed more than enough cultural knowledge to pass as a native. Aside from a few gaps in common sense, Jester could easily blend into society.

The gun’s mechanism looked simple enough to him. He loaded, aimed, and fired a few rounds toward a distant target. The simulated recoil and vibration through his arm made him smile faintly.

"Impressive," he thought. The sensation was precise—artificial, yet close enough to reality to stir something in his mind.

He rolled his shoulder and, out of habit, tried to feel the flow of power inside this body. Nothing answered.

Jester eyebrow raised in realization. So this body barely left the physique of an average human and possessed almost no mana at all.

A small spark of amusement lit his eyes.

So abilities exist here, but they are leashed. The game seemed to want things that couldn’t be brute-forced with power. A limiter like that only made it more interesting.

His curiosity deepened, and his desire to explore this so-called "game world" finally took over.

Without thinking twice, Jester began to move forward, scanning the surroundings and experimenting with the game’s interface.

Little did he know that, at that very moment, he was already in the eyes of thousands of people watching the live broadcast.

On HexaNova’s stream, the camera drone zoomed closer as her chat exploded again:

"He’s moving! Look at that form!"

"Bro’s checking the gun like he’s in the army."

"No hesitation, no tutorial fumbling—he knows what he’s doing!"

"Confirmed! That HAS to be Phantom Spear. The stance, the focus—it’s him!"

"Why’s he so calm though? Everyone else is panicking!"

"Chat, this is giving main character energy."

"He even reloads like a pro. I swear, if this isn’t Michael Norman, I’ll eat my credits."

HexaNova chuckled.

She panned her view, tracking Jester as he advanced through the simulated battlefield, completely unaware of the storm of attention surrounding him.

And so it began—the moment an undead pretending to be human unknowingly became the internet’s newest obsession.

Out past the wire, the current opponent finally showed itself. The HUD tagged them as Varkhul. They were tall, slab-muscled, and wrapped in bone plates like crude armor with weapons like hooked javelins and cleaver-length blades.

Where the Federation leaned on technology, the Varkhul leaned on raw strength. Their shamans beat drum that spiked the courage of their warriors and dampened nearby electronics at times.

Right now it was a stalemate.

Plasma bursts stitched the ridge. Lily popped up from behind a sandbag and fired in quick bursts. Her rounds went wide or chewed dust a meter short. She bit her lip, adjusted, and kept trying.

Slowly, she found herself adjusting to the game reality.

Fortunately, though the sight was gory, there was no strange smell that enhanced it.

Jester leaned over the sandbag, sights steady. He squeezed the trigger three times in a calm rhythm.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

All three rounds hit, but each struck bone plate where it was thickest damaging the armour.

The Varkhul he tagged staggered but did not fall.

If Michael had been there to see it, he alone would have known what to feel—recognizing in that moment a strangely familiar echo of a certain embarrassing memory from his past.

Unlike a certain necromancer, it didn’t take Jester long to get the hang of aiming.

His aim was already decent thanks to his natural advantages, and after a few more shots, he quickly advanced from good shots to deadly precision.

Jester adjusted his stance slightly, eyes narrowing as he tracked another Varkhul charging between the wreckage of metal barricades. He exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.

Crack.

The first shot tore through the alien’s neck joint, right where two thick bone plates met. A fine spray of black ichor burst into the air as the creature’s roar died in its throat. It staggered two steps before collapsing face-first into the mud, its crude weapon slipping from its grasp and clattering beside it.

Another Varkhul came charging through the haze, its bone blade raised high. Its armored feet slammed into the ground with earth-shaking weight.

Crack.

The rifle bucked in Jester’s grip, but his stance didn’t waver. The bullet whistled through the air and struck the creature straight through the eye slit of its helmet. For a split second, it kept running, the body’s momentum carrying it several meters before it crumpled, lifeless, at his feet.

The soldiers beside him froze. Even the nearby NPCs, programmed with combat subroutines, seemed to falter mid-movement as if confused by the sudden efficiency of death.

Lily, crouched beside a sandbag, fumbled mid-reload, staring wide-eyed. "He... he didn’t even miss..." she whispered, voice trembling with awe.

IronDog42 whistled. "Holy crap, man! You a pro or something?"

Jester didn’t answer. His focus remained absolute. His hands moved fluidly, reloading with mechanical grace. The muzzle flashed three more times, each shot finding a weak point—an exposed knee joint, a throat gap, a shoulder seam. Every hit either crippled or killed.

The NPC squad leader, standing a few meters away, turned briefly from shouting orders to glance at him. "You’re doing great lads!," he said to no one in particular before barking new commands.

Even the nearby NPC soldiers, coded to simulate emotional reactions, paused for a split second as if recognizing excellence. A few of them exchanged glances, murmuring simulated awe.

Meanwhile, on the live broadcast—

HexaNova’s voice rang with excitement. "Chat, are you seeing this? He’s literally soloing the left flank!"

Her chat exploded with messages:

"He’s not missing!"

"What kind of aim is that?"

"That recoil control though—he’s a machine!"

"If that’s not Phantom Spear, then this guy’s his clone!"

Lily ducked behind cover again, heart pounding. Jester fired another precise volley. Three shots, three kills. Each impact left a burst of simulated gore and glowing data fragments.

She swallowed, muttering, "He makes it look so easy..."

Jester lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly—a hint of satisfaction, maybe even amusement.

He lowered his rifle for a second, assessing the chaos. The Federation troops were regaining ground. The Varkhul advance slowed.

Then, as another wave appeared over the ridge, Jester murmured softly, "Let’s test something new."

If Michael was to hear his tone, he would have felt a chill in his spine.

It sounded harmless but the time subtly contained something else.

*

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